In my area, the peerage is as common as unicorns, hobbits, and Cujo. Except, on occasion it does seem an occasional Cujo might sneak in.

So, it would stand to reason that I would avoid writing about characters who are of the peerage. After all, there is that adage, write what you know.

But, I believe people are basically the same. As one of the female aristocratic types in one of my books said, "We put on our bejeweled slippers the same as anyone else."

The hero in It's Marriage or Ruin is Marcus, Lord Grayson.

Excerpt:

Lord Grayson remained perfectly still for several moments before he moved. He rearranged the hem of his sleeve and his eyes fell over Emilie, making the air she swallowed fill her with a fresh warmth. ‘We meet again.’

‘You knew I was out here,’ she said.

‘Whether I did or not, it doesn’t matter.’

Even in the darkness, Emilie could imagine him plainly. Nature had sculpted a visage which could have inspired Michelangelo to do better work.

Her hand wanted to caress, to run over the planes of his cheek so she could experience him with the feeling of touch as well as sight.

Inwardly, she berated her traitorous thoughts. She pulled herself from the momentary stupor, blaming it on her fascination with form.

How unfair that someone such as Lord Grayson, a man who said he liked frivolities, would have such a pleasing appearance. Her mother had been so wrong about which of Avondale’s sons had been graced with handsomeness.The humour on his lips faded. ‘Miss Catesby, you are an accident waiting to happen.’

She tossed the words out. ‘Accidents do happen and I am not the cause of any of them.’

When I saw my first book pop up on a website, I was thrilled. But it was so alone. Just one book. Now, my tenth one has been published.

When I'm writing, I can feel the characters' thoughts, but rarely imagine their faces. Then, when a cover arrives, I soon begin to see the characters as the exact image that is portrayed.

An excerpt from It's Marriage or Ruin that tells a bit about Emilie:​‘Miss Catesby. Stay away from my brother. He would ruin you.’

She touched the light wool of his waistcoat, letting her fingers flatten against him. Leaves rustled again as the wind touched them. The breeze strengthened, and the air tingled her cheeks. ‘I would say it’s not your concern.’

‘Miss Catesby. You’re an innocent.’ His fingers pressed into the fabric at her waist and he moved back a whisper.

She trailed her fingers up the waistcoat, touching the cravat, the edge of his jaw, the curve of his lips. She could have been touching a Michelangelo when she felt his face. This was something she’d never imagined before. Her heart pounded from the merest touch of his skin.​To feel a true masterpiece overwhelmed her. She dropped her hand and clenched it, keeping it at her side. She could hardly wait to capture in paint a masculine jawline. One with a hint of darkness in it. In shadows. Such a challenge. To put this image on canvas. A man in the shadows. Darkened features. She could never call it The Dark Angel. Her mother would destroy it. She would call it A Saint In Repose.

She could not calm her heartbeats, but inspiration came at the strangest moments, and one should relish them, hold them close, hug them to one’s heart.

But she could not touch him again. He was the forbidden fruit. The crevasse that could swallow the as-yet-unmade creations that were inside her and turn her into nothingness.

‘Art is my passion.’

His mouth parted. ‘You could have more than one passion, perhaps.’​‘I do. Oils, then watercolours.’

Reflections in flood waters reminded me of an impressionist's painting. So I took a few moments and a few pictures and tried to see them through an artist's eyes. Georgia 'O Keeffe loved her flower portraits.

Moss on rocks in the yard reminded me of daubs of paints.

The hideously ugly fungus that had popped up after the rain was the most photogenic.